


For Ever Nearer Yet

by tmelange



Series: Forever the Same [1]
Category: DCU - Comicverse, Smallville
Genre: First Kiss, First Meeting, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-29
Updated: 2011-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><img/></p><p>On his sixteenth birthday, young Clark Kent meets Bruce Wayne at a fundraiser in Metropolis, launching the friendship of which legends are made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a stand-alone installment in the _Forever the Same_ universe that focuses on the relationship between Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne over the course of many years.

**Prelude**

 _Stars. The ever-changing constellation that marks the passage. It is time. In the pre-dawn light, sharp as the ice, white as the snow that swirls and falls, it hums itself awake._

 _Latent directives—from the creator who prepared the way. Analyze the condition of the son: physiology, psychology, Kryptonian development impacted by yellow radiation._

 _Compatibility. The female of the Earth species. Lois Lane Lana Lang. Fragile. Will not survive._

 _Locate...Diana._

 _Scanning—_

 _Profile: Female of the species. Amazonian. Immortal._

 _Vessel suitable._

 _ **The application of will across time:** He has already chosen._

 _Parameter added._

 _The One Loved. Profile: Bruce Wayne. Male of the species. Biological incompatibility._

 _Scanning—_

 _Hybrid. Kryptonian DNA construct bonded to human DNA._

 _ **The application of will across time:** We saved him. It was the only way. Re-compute._

 _Parameter added._

 _Beloved. Adopted son of the House of El._

 _Target suitable. Adjusting scenario to account for biological incompatibility._

 _Locating subject—_

 _ **The application of will across time:** There must be volition._

 _Parameter added._

 _Volition._

 _Scanning archives._

 _Unacceptable level of uncertainty. Insert variable._

 _Compute probabilities. Execute—_

 _ **The application of will across time:** Stop. Gently, my old friend. They are individuals, with individual hearts and minds._

 _Parameter added._

 _Computing—_

 _Unacceptable level of uncertainty._

 _Scanning archives. Pinpoint theory of change._

 _Theory of change._

 _Play archive._

+

 _Metropolis, in the distant future..._

On a rooftop, in Metropolis, in the twilight hours before dawn many years in the future or, perhaps, in the future's past, stand the world's two greatest heroes, side by side, the sun and the moon locked in their own celestial orbit. This is the day Clark Kent decides to marry Lois Lane.

To the observer it is the fulfillment of a potentiality that some may call a divination, others a memory. All that is known is that _this_ is the day that will mark a change in the tenor of the relationship between these two heroes; _this_ is the day the observer will select as the proof that certain souls are tethered, one to the other, by an ethereal, gossamer thread which draws them together inexorably, like the rush of the river to the sea. Despite the past, in dereliction of memory. With no regard for future hopes and dreams and in spite of the obstacles—certain souls are linked by a bond that cannot and should not be broken.

The possibilities between these two—they are vagarious and endless. All that is clear is that Clark Kent will ask her, and that some things will change and others remain forever the same. Change. The proposal marks the end of the beginning.

"You asked her to marry you."

Bruce's tone is accusatory, but the cowl that covers half his face blurs the details—whether the statement hides anger, or resentment, or disappointment, or hurt, or fear. Clark spares no time wondering how Bruce learned he had finally asked Lois to marry him when it had only happened less than a half a day ago, and he had been prevaricating up until the very last minute.

He can't keep the exasperation out of his voice, though. He's not in the mood to play Bruce's games, not here—on a rooftop that holds distant memories—in the small hours before the dawn on a day that should be one of the happiest days of his life.

"Is this why you called me here? You said it was important."

The tone changes from accusation to derision—and isn't that always the way of the Gotham Knight, to make difficult what could be so easy, to rely on their adversarial relationship rather than their years-long friendship to acquire the information he seeks. To attack love as if in the midst of a battlefield.

"Have you thought this through, Clark? If anyone finds out she's the wife of Superman—"

"No one will find out. We'll be careful. As far as anyone will know, she's marrying Clark Kent."

"You're never careful. There isn't a stealthy, careful bone in your body. You approach everything like a battering ram, trusting your invulnerability to indemnify you from the consequences."

The night wind snatches at Clark's red cape, whipping it up and out like a wraith, as he takes an aggressive step forward and uses the inch that separates them in height to his advantage.

"That's not true, and you know it. I'm always careful. I'm just not as careful as you." He can't help the bitterness that edges his words. "No one is as careful as _you."_

"If you had asked me—"

"But I didn't ask you, Bruce! It's been a long time since I've bothered to come to you for advice. Or hadn't you noticed? Besides . . . Clark Kent was careful enough to fool _you."_

The glacial pause, the nighttime shadows that coil around his ink-colored cape, let Clark know that his point has struck like the thorn on the stem of a rose, viciously, unexpectedly.

"We don't have to be . . . what we once were for me to be right. You're being naïve, and you're putting Lois in danger. People like us can't afford these types of romantic entanglements. You work with her. You see her practically every day. You don't have to marry her—"

Clark can't stop the anger. He steps even closer, reaches out and grabs Bruce by the shoulders and shakes him a little, he's so angry. Only Bruce can make him this angry.

"Stop it. You don't have the right to do this."

Of course, Bruce thinks of objecting—forcibly—to Clark's aggressive tactics. His fists clench at his sides, but he stops himself. He knows Clark, better than anyone, knows that his anger is the first step in getting him to listen, the first step in convincing him to change his mind about marrying that woman. Anything can be tolerated if it forestalls such a disastrous result.

"I'm not like you," Clark says, his voice lowering to a whisper, his hands loosening and now merely resting on Bruce's shoulders, on the hard Kevlar that defines his outer shell. "The never-ending fight—it can't be my whole life. I grew up with a family. My ma and pa, no matter how hard it got, they always had each other. I need someone to love, Bruce, someone who can love me back. I don't want to be in this alone."

"You're not alone. What we have—"

"What we _had,_ Bruce. Past tense."

"Fine," he growls. "We had the perfect working relationship."

Clark stares at him in amazement, wondering how a person who is so smart can be so oblivious to everything important, wondering how Bruce can care _now_ when he had never cared when it mattered. He drops his hands and takes a step backwards.

"Stop trying to manipulate me. You're not changing my mind."

Their dance continues as Bruce takes a step forward this time, not allowing Clark to use any distance between them as a shield. This time it's Bruce who reaches out, but hesitantly, to place a gloved hand at the juncture of head and neck.

"I'm not trying to manipulate you. I'm simply concerned. You're the most powerful man on the planet. It would be _unwise_ to give your enemies any more leverage."

The earnestness, the innocence, the sharp light of truth that lives in Clark's too blue eyes, implacable as the approaching dawn, almost makes Bruce blink, almost makes him look away in shame at his complete inability to deal with _this_ man with his heart first, rather than his head, when he knows that it's only the heart that means anything to Clark at all.

Clark scoffs and the bitterness and the tired resignation, more than anything else, provide a window into the nature of their relationship, at this time and in this place.

"You're always the first one to say it, Bruce: we're not friends. We're colleagues who help each other out from time to time. We're a long way away from the days when we used to—"

Clark stops himself, ducks his head, sighs, but then raises his head belligerently, with the same spark of defiance in his eyes that has clouded their relationship for months, years.

"Listen," he says, briskly, "let's not do this. The past is the past. It meant nothing. You've made that abundantly clear. It's time that we just let it go. I'm happy now, with Lois. I'm going to marry her whether you think it's a good idea or not. Go back to—whomever you're spending your time with these days."

"You don't know?"

"No. I have better things to do than to keep track of the revolving door that you call your love life."

"Liar."

Clark shakes his head, weary of the absolute gall of the man, and if Bruce is right, if Clark can pick out the rush of his heartbeat as some _other_ person drives him to the edge of ecstasy and over; if with one hasty, involuntary glance he can ascertain every detail, even from a world away, he would _never_ admit it. Never out loud.

"Whatever, Bruce. Listen, I have to go—"

Clark takes a step towards the edge of the roof, on the cusp of that preparatory moment when he will launch himself into the sky, leaving the past behind. Still, from behind him, the past won't let him go, never lets him go.

"Lois. You love Lois."

The voice that Clark would recognize anywhere is now flat, challenging, requiring Clark to turn and engage Bruce simply because Bruce wills him to do so. He never could resist _this_ man at his most determined, and it seems to him that despite everything he has done to extricate himself from Bruce Wayne and their complicated relationship, nothing much has changed.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"She's what you want."

"Yes."

It only takes a shadowy flowing forward, the lightest of tugs for Bruce to pull Clark's head in close and for him to capture the lips that he knows so well with his own. For a timeless, dizzying moment, Bruce can't remember why he has denied himself the taste of Clark for so long, what could possibly be more important in the world than _this,_ the electricity between them, the song of night and day that has been there from the very first moment they met. The way their bodies fit together, so perfectly. The way the whole world becomes more tolerable, infinitely more pleasing, when their lips meet.

He has only a handful of seconds to live in the rush of memories before Clark reacts. Clark is mad, glowering, and if Bruce hadn't known before this moment that Clark's heart is already engaged, that he had given his promise, on his honor, on his life, he knows it now. With one push, Clark sends him flying across the rooftop garden, until he crashes into a small tree in a large clay pot.

"We're not doing this."

His voice is like the crack of pre-dawn thunder.

Clark turns toward the edge of the roof and rests his hands on the stone balustrade that encircles the perimeter, looking down at the street below. Behind him, Bruce slowly gets to his feet, straightens his cape and brushes himself off. Clark doesn't turn around as Bruce approaches his heart-side. He seems poised to fly away, and Bruce quickly moves close to forestall that option. They stand there in the hush of the dawning, shoulders touching, both staring into the pink of the lightening sky instead of at each other.

"I feel like I've spent my whole life wishing you'd—" Clark stops and takes a deep breath. "And now that I'm happy you want me to believe that I'm important to you?"

"You've always been important to me."

"Right, like an object to be picked up and played with. Studied and dissected, but never loved. You saved that for other people."

He laughs, just a little. The sound is bitter, ugly, and so unnatural coming from him.

"How long are you going to hold that against me? How many ways do you want me to apologize? He was nothing. He meant nothing to me—"

"Just—stop, Bruce. I know you. I know what you're trying to do. I know better than anyone exactly how much of an ass you are."

Bruce doesn't bother to object. He allows the silence between them to soothe Clark's jagged edges, to stretch and to pool, until, finally, it becomes somewhat companionable. Clark can never stay mad at him for long.

"You remember when—"

"Of course I do. Like it was yesterday. You were standing over there," Clark nods his head to the right, towards where a large shrub and a small tree make a sort of alcove of shadows, "and I walked over, thinking that I needed to apologize for Lex being such a jerk to you. I was so nervous. I spilled my apple juice all over you." Clark pauses and smiles, just a little. "But you were nice to me. You didn't laugh." The smile threatens to spread to his eyes. "You were a lot less . . . muscular back then."

"I seem to remember you being a little shorter when I kissed you," Bruce adds wryly, "though not by much."

The small smile dies on Clark's face.

"It was a long time ago."

Silence.

"This isn't going to work, you know."

"What?"

"This," Clark waves his hand, "rehashing the past. I remember everything, Bruce. Better than you. But it's all gone. It never meant _anything._ We have nothing to show for all the crap we went through, the craziness, and the lies, and the constant fighting. It's almost as if it never really happened."

Clark doesn't have to say that it's all Bruce's fault that they have nothing but this warped friendship, his fault the way things are between them now. Incontrovertible facts need no utterance.

"I have to go. Don't call me unless there's a real emergency. At least not until after the wedding."

Clark turns to leave.

"I'll do it."

He stops, glances over his shoulder at the Dark Knight standing there so dangerously.

"Do what?"

"Your Justice League. I'll do it. You sell the idea, I'll handle the op tech."

"You'll do it." Clark is flabbergasted. "After all the arguing, after everything you said. Why?"

"I changed my mind."

 _"You changed your mind?"_

"Yes. Think of it as your wedding gift."

This time it is the Bat who turns to leave, extending a grappling hook and leaping up on the railing's edge, all acrobatic beauty and shadowy grace. As he flies in an arc toward his next landing point, he whispers, just loud enough for a person with super senses to hear:

 _Don't say it never meant anything._

The hero known to the world as Superman closes his eyes against the sudden prickling, but he shakes it off and launches himself into the air, on angel's wings, most magnificent, resolved to live a life without memories of the past haunting him, where the present is all that matters. To the observer it seems even the man who stands for all that is true in the world is not immune to the need to sometimes hide the truth from himself.

Of course, the Batman knows truth, knows how to handle its sting, so he can readily admit to himself that as sure as night will fall in Gotham, Clark Kent has ruined him for anyone else. But he is comfortable with a life of deprivation, and the fact of this truth means little to the day-to-day routine of his life. He is prepared to exist alone, pursuing his mission singularly, bereft of any meaningful entanglements. He needs only the knowledge that Clark Kent remains singular, too.

The night Bruce invoked by his choice of meeting places, the night they both remember so vividly—every glance, every smell, every feeling is with them now as if it had happened yesterday. Even after all the years that have passed, will pass, the memory is exactly the same for both of them—a perfect reflection of an admiring look, the touch of hands, the startling syncopation of two hearts. The first time they kissed and felt the earth tilt on its axis. Within each is the precious, perfect memory of the beginning of a love chiseled down to the bone of the soul's soul, a bond that is the paradox of their relationship—beginning, ending, never ending, always to begin again.


	2. Chapter 2

**I.**

 _Today, a day of destiny..._

Clark Kent's life changed one muggy evening in June, on the roof of The Princeton Club in Metropolis, though the change wasn't obvious to him until some years later when he could look back with the benefit of hindsight and experience and say to himself, _this was where it all started in earnest._

At the time, his entire life revolved around Lex Luthor, the billionaire son of Lionel Luthor and heir apparent to Luthor Corporation. Lex had gotten it in his head while exiled in Smallvile that Clark Kent should be the brother he never had. His reasoning was based on the fact that Clark had saved his life, quite by accident, but apparently such a deed drew unwavering loyalty from a guy Clark was sure would never have given him the time of day under ordinary circumstances. Clark found being the center of attention of a person like Lex was strange . . . but pleasant, despite the difference in their ages. Their friendship had all types of perks as a result of Lex's vast financial resources, not the least of which was special treatment on his birthday.

"Are you having fun yet?"

Lex had spirited him and his friends Pete Ross and Lana Lang to Metropolis to attend an alumni fundraiser to support a new robotics facility on campus. Since it was Clark's sixteenth birthday, Lex thought he would enjoy a trip into the city where he and his friends could have the run of a swank event that would boast the inclusion of several Pulitzer prize-winning journalists and other publishing luminaries who were Princeton alums. It was quite an exciting opportunity for someone involved with his high school newspaper and who was thinking about becoming a journalist one day himself. Lex had promised to introduce him to _everybody._

"Uh- _yeah,"_ Clark responded in that _duh_ tone of voice that said _of course_ he was having fun. What was there not to love about riding in a _limousine_ all the way to _Metropolis_ where he was right in the middle of an event held by _Princeton University?_ He even looked like he belonged here in the clothes Lex had bought him for his birthday, a dark grey suit that was cut so perfectly and made him look so _adult_ that he was afraid to ask Lex how much it had cost for fear of having to return the gift to his friend as too extravagant. To top it off, Lex had allowed him to bring not only Pete Ross but also Lana Lang, enabling him to impress the one girl he'd had a crush on since they were both kids. Lex Luthor was simply _the best._

Speaking of Lana . . . Clark's eyes scanned the glass-enclosed banquet room, looking for her. His newly developed x-ray vision made the task so much easier.

He found her. She was across the room with Pete, and they were raiding the buffet table. She looked so happy, so awe-struck. Lana had always been the first to say that one day she wanted to leave Smallville behind, to live on her own in Metropolis, to travel the world. Seeing her so happy—Clark could feel his own grin stretch from ear to ear. He turned to Lex, his best friend who had made all of this possible.

"I still can't believe you brought us with you. This is so great, Lex."

"It's your birthday, Clark. You only turn sixteen once in your life. I planned to spend the evening with you anyway but had this prior engagement scheduled. I'm glad this function is something you find interesting. I would have hated to blow off my alma mater. So, actually, you're doing me a favor."

Clark had to tap down the little electric trill that settled in the pit of his stomach. Lex would have canceled his appearance at this event to spend his birthday with him if Clark had not wanted to come along. The mere idea that he could have such influence over Lex, that the two of them really were friends, was a constant source of pride and amazement to him. Every time he heard Lex say something to confirm it, he couldn't stop the happy grin that spread across his face.

A waiter passed by with a tray of champagne flutes. Clark reached for one but was intercepted by Lex's hand on his wrist. "I don't think that's a good idea, Clark," he said, then instructed the waiter to keep him and his friends supplied with glasses of sparkling cider, despite Clark's strenuous and wheedling objections. Clark smiled at his friend ruefully. It appeared Lex was disinclined to return Clark to his parents at their farmhouse in any condition other than one of which his father, Jonathan Kent, would approve. It was the one drawback of having a best friend who was years older and already past the age of majority: said friend always felt he had to keep Clark's best interests in mind, even when Clark would rather have decided what was best for himself.

But Lex's protectiveness didn't bother him, really. Being friends with Lex was almost like having a big brother, and Clark had always wanted a brother.

Lex placed a hand on his shoulder, snagging his attention. "The presentation is about to start."

Clark turned in the direction of the small, raised platform that was set up at the front of the room, as did many of the people milling about. Lex had promised the formal part of the evening—the actual program—wouldn't last long because the rooftop banquet facility and surrounding outdoor garden was set up to allow people to mingle and network, not as a sit down event with round tables and assigned seating. All the guests had to do was to stop where they were for ten minutes and turn their attention to the microphone.

"That's the university president," Lex whispered in his ear as a distinguished older gentleman settled in front of the microphone and made some brief remarks. Next up, Lex explained, were a group of seven young men who were representatives of the Young Alumni Club. They were similarly attired in blue sports jackets emblazoned with the Princeton crest and proceeded to sing the school's fight song _a cappella_ and with much aplomb, causing the crowd to whistle and applaud loudly. Clark was terribly impressed with the group's composed and unruffled performance, especially of one dark-haired performer who seemed much younger than the rest. In fact, he seemed not so much older than Clark himself.

Clark was further surprised when the guy who had captured his interest remained behind at the microphone when the others departed. "Bruce Wayne," Lex whispered in his ear with a small smile.

Riveted, Clark listened intently as Bruce Wayne made a short but pithy speech and presented a large check in the amount of a half a million dollars on behalf of Wayne Enterprises and the Young Alumni Club to support the new robotics facility. Cameras flashed, the applause was thunderous, and Clark wondered again how he had managed to find himself at an event where young men who looked barely old enough to vote could present the utmost in grace and composure in the face of such a large crowd. Until this moment, Clark had thought that Lex was the only guy so gifted. Now, he was just beginning to realize that there was a whole world of rich, gifted young people, who donated money and gave witty speeches, and sang arm-in-arm with other similarly-situated friends of means. Clark could never be anything like _them._ He knew as sure as corn grows in season, he would have made a fool of himself standing up there with the eyes of the whole room upon him.

"Who is he?" Clark whispered to Lex as he watched the person in question speak to the university president and others while the program wrapped up. He shook hands and smiled a little, allowing a photographer to take a few pictures for the _Daily Planet._

Lex draped an arm around Clark's shoulders and explained, "Bruce Wayne, rich boy from Gotham City, more money than God, old money. His parents were killed in a robbery attempt when he was a kid, so his money is tied up in trust for the most part, though his father left him more control over his assets than would be expected. The trust also holds a majority interest in Wayne Enterprises, a global technology conglomerate, which is the primary source of new money coming in. The company is a competitor of LuthorCorp," Lex grinned sharply, showing many teeth, "started by his great, great grandfather and until very recently was headed by Bruce's uncle." Lex steered the two of them towards the front of the room. "We went to boarding school together, and ended up at Princeton at the same time."

"You went to school with him?" Clark asked, dubious. "How old is he?"

"He should be about," Lex paused, "eighteen or so."

"Then how—?"

"He would have been four years behind me at boarding, but he skipped two years somewhere. Then he finished Princeton in two and a half. He just graduated in May _summa cum laude._ Pre-med with a double major in engineering, can you believe it?"

Clark was unused to hearing this odd note of admiration in Lex's voice, and it bothered him, made him uneasy for some reason he was unable to pinpoint and didn't feel comfortable exploring.

"While I spent a good amount of time in school perfecting a somewhat rebellious image," Lex smiled, ruefully, "Bruce Wayne attacked his schooling with an intensity of purpose rarely seen in one so young."

The weird fluttering in Clark's stomach seemed to coalesce into a tight knot that threatened to upset his center of gravity. Was this Bruce Wayne the type of person Lex admired? The thought was . . . unsettling . . . because Clark knew that even with all of his powers, he could never match the other's accomplishments. Clark didn't want to contemplate the likely fact that a time would come when Lex would seek his level, someone like this Bruce person, and he would stop spending all his time with a hick from Smallville.

"Come on. I'll introduce you."

Clark's knees locked, and the two of them—who had been proceeding slowly across the room with Lex's arm around his shoulders—came to a sudden and unceremonious halt.

"I don't think—"

"Don't worry, Clark. He doesn't bite," Lex quirked an eyebrow, "at least not that I've heard."

"Bruce!" Lex called out, and Clark had no choice but to let the tide take him as Lex steered him the last few feet across the room to the poised young man with the dark hair and intense blue eyes.

"Lex," Bruce acknowledged in a low voice. He extended a hand for Lex to shake.

"Congratulations on your graduation. I didn't think you could wrap it up so quickly." Lex's voice dripped with a light sarcasm that Clark found somewhat disconcerting since it was so much at odds with Lex's recent admiration of all that Bruce had accomplished at such a young age.

"Why waste time?" Bruce replied, with a tone of voice that just skirted boredom.

"Of course," Lex smiled slowly. "What's next for you?"

Bruce sipped from his glass before answering, and his eyes moved from Lex to lock onto Clark, whom he studied speculatively over the rim. As the temperature in the room seemed to rise by ten degrees under that intense scrutiny, Clark tried hard not to squirm. For some reason, his eyes and brain refused to work properly, and seemed stuck on the curve of the glass that was held to Bruce's lips. The inane thought that it was very unfair that _he_ had been allowed champagne, despite _his_ age crossed Clark's mind.

"I was accepted into Yale medical," Bruce finally said, his eyes, thankfully, flitting away. "My father went there, so I'm considering it. I haven't made a decision." He raised an eyebrow, tilted his glass in Clark's direction. "And this is…?"

Lex smiled, toothily. "I'm sorry. Clark Kent, meet Bruce Wayne."

Bruce extended his hand. "Pleasure."

Clark looked at the hand, then into blue glaciers that seemed to skewer him like a butterfly on the head of a pin. With no small amount of inexplicable trepidation, he reached out and touched a hand that set off a sensory riot in his head.

Quickly, Clark jumped backwards as if stung. He had gotten used to his strange powers suddenly manifesting themselves at inopportune times over the past six months but he had never experienced such a sharp spike in all his senses at once. A wild press of panic overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes, hoping fervently that nothing uncontrollable, nothing he wasn't expecting, would happen.

When he slowly allowed his eyelids to flutter open, he was relieved to find that everything had reverted back to normal, except . . . he heard a steady pounding that was soothing, rhythmic, and it took him a moment to realize that it was a heartbeat, loud like a drum in his head. At first he thought it was his own, so closely did the sound match the galloping of the muscle in his chest. He became worried again, because how could he live a normal life if he had his own inner workings sounding a symphony right behind his eyes? But then he realized that the sound was _external_ and, in fact, originated from the chest of the person who was still staring at him with a lazy intensity.

It all fell into place: it was _Bruce Wayne's_ heartbeat, and that realization caused a further expanding of his senses until he could hear every heartbeat in the room. Distressed, he raised a hand to his head, trying to stop the noise.

"Clark? Are you okay?" Lex placed a hand on Clark's shoulder in concern.

With a rising sense of doom, and an effort of will to rival anything he had every done in the past, he pulled his hearing back inside, until all the distinct beats were just one loud cacophony, until he had it compressed into one rhythm that he could control. Until he had it whittled down to the very first beat, that of Bruce Wayne, standing in front of him, staring. Until that too faded into the background. "Yeah. Sorry," he slowly said.

"Did you get a hold of some champagne behind my back?" Lex asked, with dry humor.

"No! I just . . . forget it," Clark mumbled, embarrassed. He turned from Lex to realize that Bruce was still _watching_ him, like an insect under glass. It was unnerving, and Clark felt a blush creep across his cheeks in response, especially when he realized that Lex had yet to remove his hand from his shoulder. It wasn't unusual—Lex was, perhaps, more demonstrative with him than any of his other friends—but Clark could see Bruce note the familiarity with a quirked eyebrow, heightening Clark's consciousness of something he wouldn't have noticed an hour ago. The scrutiny bothered him, made him feel incredibly self-conscious.

"So Bruce," Lex continued, "flying solo? Men like us should never be caught out without a beautiful piece of eye candy on the arm.. It's expected, you know, and we wouldn't want to disappoint."

"No, I didn't bring a date," Bruce answered, with a raised brow and a touch of speculation. "Did you?"

"Special circumstances," Lex explained as he squeezed Clark's shoulder. "It's Clark's birthday, and I promised him a good time. He saved my life a few months ago. I wouldn't be standing here today if it wasn't for him."

"Is that so?" Bruce's voice was wry, and he snagged a waiter and another glass of champagne. He raised it in Clark's direction in salute. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks," Clark mumbled. He hated it when Lex brought up the accident. It was so _embarrassing._

Clark stood by awkwardly as Lex and Bruce exchanged more idle banter, answered a few questions that were directed his way about Smallville and the high school he attended, and used the time to get his hearing under control. He practiced turning it on and off, using Bruce's heartbeat as the measure. Sometimes, it was amazing how much he could do in his own head while practically no real time passed. For instance, mere minutes had gone by but Clark had had enough time to not only practice turning his hearing on and off, but to also study his training subject.

The two of them were of a height, though Bruce might actually be a bit taller. They both had the same sort of athletic build, the dark hair, the blue eyes—it was almost as if Clark was looking in a mirror, except he knew that his own eyes didn't have the same sort of intensity edged with sadness. Bruce Wayne, Clark realized with uncharacteristic clarity, had eyes that had known tragedy, while Clark knew his own were clear and unfettered. So, perhaps they weren't the same, but Bruce Wayne did seem . . . strangely _familiar._ Clark had a remarkable memory, so remarkable, in fact, that he often had to downplay his own intelligence at school just so as to not seem a complete _oddball,_ so maybe he had seen Bruce Wayne someplace before . . . maybe a photo in a newspaper? Otherwise, why this unusual sense of recognition, this feeling that something had just clicked into place?

He tuned back into the conversation happening around him.

Lex was saying, "I've tried to keep up with you over the years, Bruce, but you don't seem to have any steady _interests._ No whims, no vices. All you do is work. Completely unacceptable for a guy your age and with your means. Hasn't anyone ever told you to slow down and smell the roses?"

"Unlike you, I don't have time for games," Bruce responded.

"Apparently, not."

"Clark, what do you think about our young Mister Wayne wanting to be a doctor?"

Clark was at a loss, and he stole a quick glance at Bruce to see if he seemed interested in a response from him or annoyed. "No one could complain about the choice to become a doctor," Clark answered, voice low. "To have the opportunity to spend your life helping people."

"See what I mean?" Lex said to Bruce _sotto voce._ "Clark is an excellent influence on me."

Bruce looked at Clark curiously. "But how do you control him?"

 _Control him?_ Did he believe that Lex was the type of person in need of someone's _control,_ like a demon conjured of hell and confined to a white chalk circle?

"Sheer force of personality," he heard himself respond, with perfect seriousness.

Lex grinned. "And purity of heart, can't forget that."

Bruce scoffed, and it served to relieve some of the tension between them, at least until Lex started in on Bruce again, seemingly determined to pick him over like a scab.

"If you ask me," Lex said, "you should skip medical school and go get your MBA, take control of your family's company."

"But I didn't ask you, Lex."

 _"Touché."_ Lex smirked in that predatory way that Clark was just starting to recognize and worry over. "Perhaps I should relieve you of the burden of having that company so you can concentrate on _helping_ people, hmm?"

"You could try."

"LuthorCorp could buy you out."

"Stop dreaming, Lex."

"Who are you kidding?" Lex's voice was now low, accusatory, edged with disdain and an intangible darkness. "You're not a businessman and never will be. What are you doing as a pre-med major when you have a multi-billion dollar international conglomerate at your fingertips and the good fortune not to have your parents around to get in your way? If I were you, I'd already own the world!"

Clark was shocked at the change that came over Bruce's face during Lex's impassioned speech. It was like a thundercloud had completely eclipsed the moon.

"But you're not me." His voice dripped with anger and his eyes were like ice. "I suggest you never mention my parents again, Lex. Ever. Now, if you and your newest _toy_ would excuse me—"

Clark's face flushed hard at the disdainful glare Bruce cast in his direction before he stalked off, leaving Clark confused and staring at Lex in amazement. If Lex admired Bruce so much—and Clark was sure he did—why the attack?

"Lex," he said, "what was that?"

 _"That,_ my dear Clark," Lex threw an arm around his shoulders and steered him in the direction of a few other people he wanted Clark to meet, "is the way you take the measure of a potential adversary, to see just what gets under their skin. Our young Bruce Wayne is very sure of himself, but he suffers from the great failing of youth: he has no _perspective."_

Clark had a vague feeling of discomfiture at the off-handed way Lex chose to run roughshod over the feelings and concerns of others, all in furtherance of some sort of adversarial game of egos. That feeling only grew as he and Lex made their way around the room, meeting many interesting people, though none as interesting as Bruce Wayne in Clark's opinion. They eventually hooked up again with Pete and Lana, and Lex left them alone for a short while to handle his own donation to the new building.

As soon as Lex was otherwise occupied, Clark reached a decision and excused himself from his friends to follow through. He would find Bruce and apologize for Lex's tactless remarks. It was only right, and was a plan that was surprisingly easy to implement. All he had to do was follow the unique sound of a heartbeat calling to him from the shadows, resonating in the hollows of his own bones, like an echo.


	3. Chapter 3

**II.**

Bruce Wayne watched the rest of the evening go by from the shadows of an alcove outside in the garden that surrounded the rooftop banquet hall, incredibly angry and annoyed at himself for being so. He knew better than to let Lex Luthor get under his skin, but sometimes he couldn't keep the calm, dispassionate veneer in place. To have a wastrel like Luthor presume to tell him _anything_ about his life—how _lucky_ he was that his parents were _dead_ —was an affront past bearing. Now, he wanted to go home, but it would look bad if he left early. Besides, Alfred wouldn't be around to pick him up for another hour.

Luthor had always been an annoyance, right from the beginning. Even in boarding school when Lex thought because he was two grades (and four years) Bruce's senior it would be _amusing_ to try to take the precocious young billionaire under his wing, and became somewhat caustic and irate when Bruce had informed him, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn't in need of a mentor; that he was in perfect control of his life and knew exactly what he had time for and what he didn’t. Certainly, running with Luthor's disreputable crew would only have derailed him from his goal to finish his education as quickly as possible and to figure out how he could best fulfill the promise he had made on his dead parents' memory to be a force to be reckoned with in Gotham.

Nothing changed over the many years of their arms-length association, despite the fact that they were often in proximity, both having attended Princeton and both pursuing their legacies of science and technology. Both circulated in the same posh crowd that often had them attending the same social events. Luthor always watched and needled. Bruce always tolerated and shot Lex down when his ego expanded obnoxiously. Lex didn't often get too personal with it, so it was a surprise that he would choose this evening to take their adversarial relationship to new depths, especially when Lex had a young . . . _friend?_ . . . with him.

Thinking of Clark Kent made Bruce scowl. A person so young and seemingly innocent shouldn't be left in the unsupervised presence of Lex Luthor for any length of time. Bruce was almost sorry for the tactless implication that was his parting shot and the obvious embarrassment it had caused. He was certain Lex had not yet stooped to the level of sexually corrupting someone seven years his junior. Bruce was a good judge of people. He would bet a million that whatever might be on Lex's future agenda where Clark was concerned, the possibility of anything beyond a friendship hadn't even crossed the young man's mind.

Clark was quite handsome, though, Bruce had to admit. He could certainly understand Lex's attraction. The young man was like no _high school_ student Bruce had ever met. He looked positively stunning in that gray suit, his blue eyes outshining everyone else in the area. Bruce couldn't help but notice him as he walked across the room with Lex's arm draped over his shoulders, with Lex smirking like Clark was his own personal possession. Yes, Clark Kent was certainly singular, unique. There was something special about him, about his eyes....

Thinking of Clark seemed to have the effect of conjuring him up. Bruce watched as the young man in question made a beeline for him, which was somewhat surprising since Bruce had picked his current position so he wouldn't be readily noticeable by the other guests, on the right side of the garden path, where line of sight from the entranceway to the banquet room was blocked by a large bush and a potted tree. But Clark seemed not to be fooled, and was homing in on him like he was wearing a flashing beacon. At least until Clark was within ten feet. Then, he promptly tripped over a rise in the stone path and went flying, all long arms and legs, to land in a heap at Bruce's feet.

The drink Clark was carrying—smelled like apple juice—soaked Bruce's left pant leg. Somehow, Clark had managed to save the glass, though.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry!"

Clark was on one knee, swiping at his pant leg with a napkin and a hastily produced handkerchief, completely distraught and talking a mile a minute.

"I'm so stupid. It's the shoes. I can't believe I'm so stupid. I'm so sorry—"

Bruce had to touch his hair to get his attention. There was only a quick look up before Clark resumed his mad swiping at his leg. If Bruce hadn't thought it would devastate the young man, he might have burst out laughing.

"Clark, it's okay. Really, Don't worry about it."

"No, it's not okay! Damn, why does this always happen to me?"

"Clark." Bruce tried the hair again. When that produced no result, he stepped back out of reach and stooped down to physically pull the young man back up to a standing position. Clark's face was beet red. He was standing up but he wouldn't look Bruce in the eye.

Bruce was silent for a moment, considering. Finally, he decided to go with the obvious. "So what's wrong with your shoes?"

"They're new! That's what's wrong. If I'd had a few days to break them in...."

Bruce looked down at Clark's shoes. They were expensive, two thousand dollars, easy.

"Who the heck wears these types of shoes anyway? I mean, I _know_ who wears them, people like _you_ and Lex, but they _hurt._ Where I come from we wear boots, or tennis shoes, or comfortable sensible dress shoes when we go to _church,"_ Clark grumbled, stomping over to the balustrade and leaning against it in disgust.

It was getting harder and harder for Bruce not to smile at Clark's disgruntlement, so he followed the young man to his new position leaning on the stone perimeter. He reached out and fingered Clark's tie, worth another grand if it was worth a penny. "Did Lex buy this for you?"

"Yeah, for my birthday." Clark grinned ruefully. "I didn't think the shoes would cause me such a problem. I can be clumsy, but I'm not usually _that_ clumsy."

"It could happen to anyone, Clark."

"Right."

"Really. I remember I had a new pair of shoes once that I wore to this fundraiser at a museum. The floors had just been waxed and the shoes were brand new. It was like I was skating on ice all night long. I made a complete fool of myself."

"I highly doubt you could ever make a fool of yourself."

"You'd be surprised," Bruce said, leaning forward a little conspiratorially. "It happens to the best of us."

Bruce saw the blush threatening to creep up Clark's cheeks again, but the young man quickly jumped into the reason he had sought Bruce out.

"Listen, I wanted to apologize for Lex. He told me about your parents, and I really think it was a terrible thing for him to say."

Bruce was silent for a moment, considering the young man and his quite unnecessary apology.

"Do you often apologize for Lex's behavior?"

"No . . . well sometimes. Lex has a habit of being his own worst enemy. He doesn't mean it."

"So the two of you are close?"

Clark broke their gaze first, looking down and biting his lip as if considering his answer carefully.

"He says so. We come from very different worlds, and I don't think anyone really believes he's my friend."

"Do you believe it?"

Clark answered without hesitation, which was shocking enough to Bruce, not to mention the clear light of _trust_ that seemed to shine in Clark's eyes, as if betrayal wasn't a concept in his vocabulary.

"Yes."

Knowing Lex and his notorious reputation, Bruce had a very bad feeling about where Clark's relationship with Lex would end up. Of course, the question still remained: what did Lex see in Clark Kent that had him dressing the boy up and chaperoning him around town like he was a long lost family member, beyond the obvious? It had to be more than the fact that Clark had saved his life.

"You saved his life?"

That blush crept over Clark's cheeks again, and Bruce thanked his genes for not having a similar problem. On Clark's face, his every feeling was an open book.

"I did, but it was an accident. Lex drove his car off a bridge, and I jumped in to save him. It was no big deal."

"Lex doesn't seem to think so."

"Yeah, well," Clark mumbled, "he overreacts a little."

That forced a smile to Bruce's lips. It was returned by one of Clark's.

There wasn't many stars out, and even the moon seemed to be eclipsed by cloud cover. Twilight had turned to true night, and it was quite dark where they were standing. It was almost as if they were in their own private world, with the lights and merriment of the party happening way off in the distance.

"I should be the one to apologize," Bruce stated. "I implied something inappropriate about your relationship with Lex in my rush to get one up on him. I didn't mean to cause you any embarrassment."

"You didn't—I mean, I wasn't." Clark shook his head, causing a wavy lock to fall out of its controlled style. Bruce had to forcibly tap down on the sudden urge to raise a hand and smooth the hair away from Clark's face. His hand was already halfway there before he realized what he was doing.

"I wasn't embarrassed, I mean, I was but I understood that you were just mad. I didn't think you _meant_ it."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "That's kind of you. Are you always this understanding?"

"My pa says that being kind is easy. He's usually right about those kinds of things."

"Sounds like a smart man. Sometimes I wish I had such great advice from my father to fall back on, but I was so young when—" Bruce stopped. Why was he talking to this stranger about his parents?

"Me, too."

"Wait, didn't you just say—?"

"I meant my real parents. I'm adopted. Sometimes I wish that I knew them. That I had memories I could talk about."

"Have you ever tried to find them?"

"There's nothing to find. I was left by the side of the road as a baby with no identifying information. There was no adoption agency involved for me to investigate."

Bruce was shocked. Who would leave a baby by the side of the road with no arrangement made for its safety? And how did a child who was abandoned like that grow up to be the remarkably kind and well-adjusted young man that was standing in front of him? His adoptive parents must be amazing, Bruce thought.

"It seems we have a good deal more in common than one would think."

Clark smiled, and the force of it was like turning on a light bulb. Bruce couldn't help but blink and return it. "I guess so."

Bruce nodded and looked behind him at the banquet hall, which seemed to be thinning out, and then down at his watch. An hour had passed in what seemed to Bruce to be a blink of an eye. Alfred should be outside waiting. He was reluctant to end his conversation with Clark, however, especially since he felt he owed the young man at least a warning about his association with Lex Luthor.

"About Lex," he began, but under the intense regard of those eyes that trusted, he didn't know what to say. He settled on, "Be careful."

"Careful."

"Yes."

Clark sighed, and a little bit of exasperation crept into his voice. "You're just like everyone else, telling me not to trust Lex, that he's a bad guy. But he's never been anything but nice to me. He treats me like a friend, a brother, and I won't listen to you bad mouth him." Clark's chin came up indignantly. "Do you have anything specific to say or are you just going to tell me to be careful?"

Bruce looked at him speculatively. What he was thinking about doing made his own heart race. But once the idea presented itself, it was impossible to resist.

Slowly, Bruce leaned in, bringing a hand up and burying it in those dark waves that had been calling to him since Clark had fallen at his feet. Captured lips that formed a soft "O" of surprise. Thoroughly, he enticed those lips to respond in a way he found most pleasing and Clark's tongue to take equal liberties. A little thrill of excitement, like forked lightning, went through his body as Clark seemed to melt into his embrace, learning quickly and taking some small amount of initiative that ended with his hands moving from sides to shoulders to neck, to face. The caress seemed to find all of Bruce's sharp edges and soothe them, drowning his whole body in the warmest sensation, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

All Bruce could hear was the marvelous thundering of his heart in his ears, or at least he thought it was his own heart, it seemed almost external. Slowly, he pulled away, opened his eyes. It was just like what he expected a baby must feel after being born, having a thousand new colors added to his senses all at once. He watched Clark's eyelashes flutter open when he realized that no more kisses were forthcoming.

"Why . . . why did you do that?"

Why did he? Bruce settled on the easiest answer, the one that made the most sense.

"You looked like you needed it, and it _is_ your birthday."

Clark blinked. Bruce could read the tension that was starting to build because he didn't understand what Bruce _meant,_ thought, perhaps, that Bruce was playing with him. He didn't want Clark to misunderstand, so he tried to elaborate.

"A guy like Lex Luthor," he said, "plays with hearts like toys. You've never been kissed before. If you won't be careful, at least you'll be more experienced. Now you won't be at such a disadvantage when dealing with him."

"How did you know—?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

"That I've never kissed anyone?"

Bruce reached out, ran a thumb over Clark's cheekbone affectionately. "I can tell by your reaction and the way that Lex looks at you. Then there's your eyes. They're too unguarded, and love hurts. No one could have eyes like yours and have known pain."

"Oh."

The clouds parted, allowing the light of a full moon to stream though the sky like a river, lighting stars, surrounding Clark in a pale radiance that turned his flawless skin to marble. Clark was beautiful. Such a perfect beauty—it practically stung the eyes. Bruce found he couldn't resist reaching for him again.

It wasn't until the sharp sound of his name caused Clark to jump out of his arms and three feet into the air that Bruce returned to his senses.

 _"What do you think you're doing?"_ Lex growled. "I didn't bring him here to be debauched by someone like _you."_

Gray eyes stared at Bruce in fury, and if they hadn't both been standing in a place where propriety meant _everything,_ Bruce had no doubt Lex would have attacked him outright, with fists or whatever else was handy. He didn't think he had ever seen Luthor so mad.

But Clark was there, inserting himself in between, placing a hand on Lex's arm and talking to him urgently. The sight of Clark pandering to that . . . jackass . . . made Bruce want to spit. They were talking in low tones. Bruce only caught the end of their exchange. Lex wanted Clark to go inside and round up his friends, while Lex wanted to stay and "talk" to Bruce. Bruce welcomed the opportunity.

Clark said something under his breath to Lex that made him pause. Reluctantly, he moved off to the side, out of direct line of sight. Clark turned to Bruce with a sheepish smile.

"I'm sorry about this," he said. "He's like an overprotective older brother, or my father, or something."

"Or something," Bruce agreed.

Clark was silent for a moment before reaching out and running a finger over the curve of Bruce's nose, across his lips and chin, up his cheekbone and around the shell of his ear, as if he were trying to memorize him by feel alone. "Thank you," he said softly. "I'll remember what you said. I'll be careful."

Bruce felt he had to say something, but what he felt he should say was galling. He did it anyway. "Have a good time exploring your horizons," he whispered, stepping close. "But guard your heart. Don't just give it away because he asks for it."

Clark nodded. When he turned to head into the banquet room to find his friends, it took all of Bruce's control not to call him back.


	4. Chapter 4

**III.**

Like most of the people who were important in the world, Lex Luthor had to shoulder the burden of a reputation. Occasionally, people like Bruce Wayne took the reputation as the measure of the man. It was always a mistake to underestimate a Luthor and the lengths to which he would go to protect his own.

There had always been _something_ between him and Clark, something special, something rare. But it was innocent, unspoiled. Lex had recognized it, nursed it, knowing that one day their relationship could blossom into something _more,_ even though he was completely satisfied with their friendship. But now that Bruce had had the audacity to take what he never should have _touched,_ Lex had to physically stop himself from dismembering the young upstart. The sight of Clark with Bruce . . . Lex was capable of _anything_ to prevent a similar incident from happening ever again.

He glared at Bruce. The boy was standing in front of him with his arms crossed, looking for all the world as if he was ready to start a brawl. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that the young man was only eighteen.

"You don't deserve him."

"You may be right, but I have him. Possession is nine-tenths, and all that."

"So you've taken to seducing farmboys."

"Seducing?" Lex smiled widely, showing a mouthful of sharp, brilliant, perfectly even teeth. "Bruce, you have quite the imagination. The only seducing I saw happening was the bit that you were doing."

"At least I'm not seven years older than him!"

"And I've never done anything improper," Lex stated. "Nor will I. Ever."

"Right."

"Careful, Bruce," he said with a dry edge to his voice, with a small smile, the most dangerous color tingeing the edges of his features. "You don't want to do this. You don't know how far I'll go."

"Why is he so important to you?'

Lex grinned openly, mocking Bruce with his eyes. "I could tell you, but I suspect you'd never believe me. Clark is special. There is no one in the world quite like him. And he's mine."

Bruce scoffed. He shook his head, turning to go. "You throw that word around like it means something, Lex. But I'm the only one here who knows what it feels like to hold him. He certainly didn't feel like he was _yours."_

Lex watched the young billionaire walk away. He was angry that the boy thought he had gotten the upper hand, furious that he'd had the audacity to touch Clark in the first place, but confident that nothing had happened that couldn't be mitigated, with the right combination of time and pressure. One thing was certain, however. Bruce Wayne had made an enemy tonight, and enemies of Lex Luthor never prospered. The young prodigy would do well to watch his back. One day soon he might find a knife sticking out of it.

+

As Clark, Lana, Pete and Lex filed out of the elevator, and made their way to the front of the building to wait for the limousine to swing around, Clark caught sight of Bruce getting into the back seat of an expensive black car with tinted windows. The driver was holding the door open for him. As Bruce ducked his head inside and the driver closed the door and went to make his way to the left side of the vehicle, Clark got a good look at his face . . . and froze.

He knew that face.

Clark tried to remember from where. It was unlikely that he'd have met too many chauffeurs. Then it came to him, like a photographic image preserved in time and place in the recesses of his mind. He remembered a span of three days when he was, maybe, seven years old, when his family had housed a traveler named Alfred and a young boy . . . _named Bruce_ . . . while they waited to get their car repaired. Clark had a perfect memory; it was beyond photographic, but even he was a little skeptical that the Bruce Wayne he was just talking to, the one who had kissed him for the first time and made him feel so special, was the same Bruce of his childhood. Such a coincidence would be unusual, highly unlikely. As he sat in the back seat of the limo, deflecting question about his silence with claims of being tired, he simply couldn't shake the feeling that something momentous had just happened. That, maybe, just maybe, he should have asked Bruce for his phone number.


	5. Chapter 5

**Epilogue**

 _Ten years ago, on a road on the outskirts of Smallville...._

In the back of his mind, too distant to properly register, the nine-year-old could feel the car bounce hard as it hit something in the road, but he was in the throes of the dream that had haunted him for months, prevented him from sleeping, that he lived over and over and over every time fatigue got the better of him. The bump in the road interrupted the worn out ways of a dream that never varied, but this time it varied—because of the bump in the road. He was too young to respect the power of karma, fate, kismet, whatever you wanted to call a thing that _happens_ without warning and that changes _everything._ He was only dreaming.

The dream that Bruce dreamed every time he closed his eyes consisted of a series of images—a series of slow, specific, portentous events.

In the dream, he is sitting at a wooden easel, on a manicured lawn, in a well-tended cemetery, in the shade of a big tree. Color is not important, he knows instinctively as he slowly—very slowly—picks up a small piece of black chalk to continue his work. Everything in this dream is shaded black and white and gray, and Bruce needs to capture the shading exactly. It is his mission. It is the most important part of his task. He looks up from his work, and the movement takes a lifetime.

A funeral procession is making its way to an open grave in the distance, coffins hoisted up high, colorless people pacing in two straight lines, women with umbrellas cocked to protect themselves from the sun or the moon. Men in suits. Bruce is sitting at the easel, drawing that picture.

The black coffins, ebony with silver handles, are set carefully on the ground by two adjacent holes. Two enormous wreaths of flowers balance white upon the closed lids. The service begins. A few women weep a few crystal tears, but there is no sound. Cries fall upon deaf ears. The men stand solemn, quiet as rain. There is a eulogy spoken over the boxes. Bruce can see lips move even though the silence is impenetrable. He recognizes himself standing, so small and alone, though his hand is held tightly by some other mourner. All he can see is the back of his own head. Then his semblance turns, and Bruce can see that his double is not himself at all, that it is, in fact, a ghost—a ghost of himself—standing there, mourning with those people.

The ghost catches his eye and smiles, sears him with a desolate, silent gaze that says: _I can see through you—down to the real you._

Bruce is disconcerted. He rises from his chair. Chalk falls to the grass. His chair tips over . . . the easel is disturbed. Everything happens in the slowest of motions. All Bruce can think is that he shouldn't let the ghost mourn in his place.

 _That no one, not even a ghost, should have to suffer an endless repetition of losses._

The coffins are lowered into the ground. He is standing, looking down at two boxes lying in their open graves. Everyone has vanished like so much smoke . . .

. . . but the spirits of the dead—they visit him, stand at his side to protect him. His father places a hand on his shoulder; his mother kisses his cheek. They bring him color—in a world bereft of color. Blue. Shades of blue. Eyes. Eyes that sear. Eyes that sear his soul. A single blue rose falls from the palm of his hand....

Everything is spinning in circles. The picture changes, but this time it is all explained to him in the dream, with the sound of wings, angels whispering in his ear the meaning of the drawing, the easel, the funeral, the coffins, the color blue—all the many meanings in a rose. In the end, he is told _everything_ and asked to promise only one thing: that he will find some measure of joy in his life despite the pain.

Bruce opened his mouth. The breath exploded out of him suddenly, violently. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbed, and tried to get his bearings. The car was stopped. Alfred was outside. Bruce could see the top of his head through the tinted glass as Alfred knelt by the front tire. And the dream, it was already fading. He was loosing it like sand through fingers spread wide. He could only remember bits and pieces in knife-like flashes, impressions of color, so strange.

Slowly, Bruce straightened himself up and opened the car door. He stepped outside into a tempest that snatched at his tie and sent tufts of his hair flying in opposite directions.

"Alfred!" he hollered, attempting to make himself heard over the gale. The sky was a steel gray, with ominous black clouds rolling across the horizon. Bruce knew it was mid-afternoon, but it seemed as if the dead of night was about to fall. He was frightened.

"Alfred!"

Alfred appeared on the other side of the car. "Master Bruce," he called out. "I think it would be best if you stayed inside the car."

Bruce ignored him and, instead, ran to his side. "But, Alfred, what's wrong? Why have we stopped?"

"I have it all under control, young sir. We have a slight problem with the tire. All I have to do is change it, and we'll be on our way."

Though Bruce was young, Alfred had been his family's butler for his entire life. He could tell when Alfred was worried, like when Bruce had hit the baseball in the house and broken his mother's favorite vase. Alfred had promised he would fix it, that no one would be able to tell it had been broken. Then, as now, Bruce could tell Alfred very much wanted to make everything right for his young charge, but wasn't exactly sure how he would pull it off.

"What else is wrong?" he hollered. The wind was so loud. Even standing right next to Alfred it was hard to make himself heard.

Alfred wrung his hands. "We are also out of gas, Master Bruce. We could possibly make it ten, fifteen more miles, but the last three gas stations were closed due to the approaching storm. I think it highly unlikely that we'd fair any better if we were able to make it to the next one."

"Can't we just stay in the car?"

"I think it may be our only option, but—"

It was then that the sky opened up. Torrential rain poured down, and, in the distance, all around him as far as the eye could see, lightning peppered the open fields of corn. Bruce couldn't help it; he yelped at one particularly loud crash of thunder and a flash of lightning that hit so close, it turned night into day.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred yelled. "In the car!"

They both jumped into the car, but, really, the car only made the situation worse for Bruce. It was buffeted by winds, shaken, and it felt as if at any moment the terrible storm would whip them up and sweep them away.

It was then that Bruce noticed the persistent pounding at his window. He looked and saw a boy out there, about his own age, pounding on the window with a small fist. His hair was flying in all directions, and he wanted to be let in. Bruce opened the window, and was immediately blasted by wind and rain.

"Master Bruce!"

He could hear Alfred calling from the front seat, but the boy was pulling at him, yelling in his face through the open window, "Come with me! _Come on!_ You can't stay here!"

He wasn't sure why but he obeyed the boy immediately. He got out of the car. The only thing that kept his feet on the ground was the solidity of the hand that clutched his own and dragged him to the other side of the car where Alfred was struggling to maintain his feet.

 _"Come on!"_

Alfred grabbed his other hand, and with the boy leading the way and Alfred following behind, the three of them made their way into the cornfield in single file. Bruce sure hoped the boy knew where he was going, but when he looked back at the car and saw that the wind had flipped it over into a ditch, he no longer cared _where_ they were going. He simply wanted to _go._

They fought against the weather for what seemed like ages, his only tethers the hands that held him secure. It was at the point--where he didn't think he could go any further, when the rain and the wind had whittled his reserves down to the marrow of his bones, when the peals of thunder and knife-like flashes of lightning made everything inside of him stop and start in fits and gasps--that the young boy in the lead looked back at him and grinned widely, and squeezed his hand comfortingly, looking for all the world like he was having the grandest time. Bruce resigned himself to his fate. He'd either get out of this storm, or not, and there was nothing to be done about it except to keep moving forward. He answered the boy in the lead with a grin of his own.

In front of them appeared a path, then an archway with a sign at the top that said "Kent Farm," and then a pretty yellow house. In front of the house was a man with blond hair, yelling, "Clark! Clark!" and when he noticed them, he came forward at a run.

"This way!" he yelled, over the howling wind.

Bruce was hustled over to the house, and down the steps of a storm cellar at the side, by the man and the boy, Alfred following close behind. When they were all standing in the middle of the underground room, soaked to the bone and breathing heavily, a pretty red-haired woman scooped the boy up in her arms, hugged him tightly, and said, "I see you've brought us guests." She turned and introduced herself as Martha, and her husband was named Jonathan, and her son, the boy who had found them and saved them, the boy with the black hair and bright blue eyes, was named Clark.

Many years later, with the help of a scrapbook and some small prompting from Alfred, who had betrayed him, Bruce would remember that he met a boy named Clark during those hazy days after his parents' death, when he had been so lost, traveling back from California and his failure there; that the boy who had become a man had been with him from the very beginning of his journey, a kindred spirit, a commensurate karma, a soul-mate. He would remember his dream in the car, the way his father had placed a hand on his shoulder, the way his mother had kissed his cheek, lovingly, protectively. He would know as surely as night falls in Gotham, that Clark Kent had been sent by his parents to watch over him, to provide the only solace in his life, to be his sunlight when he was lost in shadows.

 _His light to my dark, his wide outward gaze to my introspection._

It would be the reason why Bruce Wayne was always so certain that Clark was a gift that belonged to him alone, sent on the wings of angels, despite his unworthiness, despite his own nature—their love consuming, passionate, beyond reason. No matter the burden. No matter the cost. Their destiny—inexorable.

The remembrance of that dream would give him the courage, the absolute certitude, to face down Lex Luthor, Lois Lane, the world entire and say, _When will you learn? He is mine. Always._

 _finis_

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written sort of like songfic. Here's the song, FWIW:
> 
> I can fly  
> But I want his wings  
> I can shine even in the darkness  
> But I crave the light that he brings  
> Revel in the songs that he sings  
> My angel Gabriel
> 
> I can love  
> But I need his heart  
> I am strong even on my own  
> But from him I never want to part  
> He's been there since the very start  
> My angel Gabriel
> 
> Bless the day he came to be  
> Angel's wings carried him to me  
> Heavenly  
> I can fly  
> But I want his wings  
> I can shine even in the darkness  
> But I crave the light that he brings  
> Revel in the songs that he sings  
> My angel Gabriel
> 
>  _Gabriel,_ Lamb, _What Sound_
> 
> Though the large part of this universe is set in general DCU, the first few stories use a bit of lore from the television show Smallville, specifically, (1) it adopts the notion that a young Lex spent some time in Smallville while Clark was in high school and that the two of them were, for a time, good friends; (2) that Clark found out about his powers and Kryptonian heritage while in high school; and (3) that Clark was exposed to red Kryptonite while a sophomore and it had the effect of turning him immoral and drastically lowering his inhibitions, creating a sort of "bad boy" persona. This universe uses a bit of the Season Two and Three episodes Exodus and Exile where Clark purposely exposes himself to red K and runs away to Metropolis to live a life of crime due to the guilt of having caused an accident that put his adoptive mother in the hospital with a miscarriage. He spends three months in Metropolis during the summer between sophomore and junior years, living on his own and causing trouble. It's not really necessary to have seen any Smallville to understand this universe, however, as I try to include full explanations of background in the relevant stories.
> 
> The title was gacked from a poem called _Insomnia_ by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the relevant part of which is:
> 
> Our lives, most dear, are never near,  
> Our thoughts are never far apart,  
> Though all that draws us heart to heart  
> Seems fainter now and now more clear.  
> To-night Love claims his full control,  
> And with desire and with regret  
> My soul this hour has drawn your soul  
> For ever nearer yet.


End file.
